


Misery's Company

by RonnieSilverlake



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Character Development, Coma, Gavin Reed Needs a Hug, Gavin Reed-centric, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28963275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonnieSilverlake/pseuds/RonnieSilverlake
Summary: When Tina is gravely injured in a car accident and falls into a coma, Gavin suddenly finds himself in a vacuum. It seems that he's never realized how much of a shield she always acted between him and the rest of the world—suddenly, he's alone, having to cope with not only the absence of his best friend, but the fact that nobody else gives a shit about him.Unless...?
Relationships: Connor & Gavin Reed, Hank Anderson & Gavin Reed, Tina Chen & Gavin Reed
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68





	Misery's Company

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the amazing [Jazz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzmckay/pseuds/karasgotagun). Thank you for making me fall so hard for convin. :"D (And thank you for betaing!)

What do you do, when your world as you know it shakes apart completely?

As if someone has grabbed it by the edges and _shook_ , until little bits and pieces break and crumble away, fall out like breadcrumbs.

This is what it feels like, at any rate, for Gavin Reed right now, as he looks at the still form of his best friend from behind a glass window.

Even from out here, he can hear the beeping of the ER machines; it carves into his skull and leaves behind a trail of agony. His hands curl into fists as he stares, nails digging into his palm, sharp—the pain seems to be the only real thing he feels, everything else a daze.

He swears, for the sixth time (not that he bothers to keep track), that he’ll only walk to work from now on, never mind that he lives on the other side of the city to where the station is. This is the second time in his life he’s losing someone precious to him to a _car accident_.

What do you do, when there’s nothing to be done?

What Gavin does is this: he raises a tightly curled fist, and presses it against the glass, allowing his vision to blur.

On the other side, Tina sleeps a dreamless sleep she may not ever wake from.

* * *

The _déjà vu_ accompanies him for a long while. It’s exactly the way it was _last time_ —feeling like he’s suffocated by a pillow, like he can’t talk to anyone or he’ll _explode_. It’s even worse than it was back then; when it was about Cole, he was held back by the desire to help Hank, up until the moment he realized Hank didn’t want any of his help—but his trying kept him on top of the tidal wave until the worst of it passed (even if then he had to watch Hank fall deeper and deeper underwater, swallowed whole).

This time around, Gavin cannot keep his head above the water, instantly submerged—and there doesn’t seem to be anyone willing to offer a hand to pull him up.

Days turn into weeks of no change, and slowly but surely, Gavin feels as if his life is drained of colour. It’s certainly a duller existence without the constant banter that’s always been going on between him and Tina, and he has to realize all of a sudden just how much of her he took for granted. She’s left a gaping hole behind that cannot be filled by anyone else—least of all because nobody else is trying to, anyway. It’s as if Tina’s presence acted as a shield between Gavin and reality: he’s only noticing now, unsure and bitter, how wide a berth people give him. It seems that Tina was a buffer between him and standing completely on his own; finally, it dawns on him that his acerbic, sarcastic, often downright offensive nature has left him with essentially no other friends among his colleagues.

It shatters him, a little bit. He’s still just as good at his job as he used to be; he has never, _will_ never let personal feelings and interpersonal relationships affect his performance (unlike a _certain Lieutenant_ ), but it still feels like he now exists in a bubble that he is unable to burst from the inside.

He starts noticing other things, too, though. Like the fact that he’s the only one treated this way—he thinks he remembers a time when Hank was the pariah, the guy too angry to let anyone else even breathe in his direction. He has to realize it’s different now, and—how has he missed this?! Hank _smiles_ at people now, almost the same way Gavin remembers he used to, before. He still swears at Fowler like it’s nobody’s business, but Gavin supposes that’s just one of those things that just _go_ between old college roommates, even if anyone else would immediately get a note in their disciplinary folder for raising their voice at the captain. And of course, they still snipe at each other with Connor, but even that seems like it wholly lacks hostility, and Gavin has to realize with a painful jolt that this, too, is something he has missed.

It’s odd, how clarity has come with something like this. What else has he not been noticing?

* * *

Existing is so much more effort, somehow. Gavin can barely do his job, and when he goes home, he feels like he’s completely out of energy, even if he went to no crime scenes and just sat at his desk the entire day, doing paperwork.

His apartment is a mess. It bothers him—of course it does—but he doesn’t know where to start. The mountain of things that need to be done has grown so big as to be insurmountable; instead, he curls up on the couch with his animals, and watches reruns of old shows that Tina introduced him to in what feels like someone else’s life.

Outside, the sun dips below the horizon. Gavin pauses the movie, rubs at his eyes as if he could swipe away the dark circles that have been laughing at him from the mirror every morning, and he pads into the kitchen to make some toast. The cats remain asleep on the couch, but Bailey follows him right at his heels, eager for some food in her bowl as well.

Gavin tends to her first, opening up a fresh can of dog food and portioning some of it out. The Sheltie sniffs at it but waits for Gavin’s hand gesture before beginning to eat. The sense of satisfaction is just as dull in his chest as everything else has been.

Two slices of bread are dropped into the toaster, butter is put out on the counter to soften, and then Gavin goes to grab a plate—only to realize there are none; all of them are sitting in a haphazard pile in or near the sink.

It’s—so stupid. For something so _mundane_ to feel like the last straw. So, so stupid—to be standing in his kitchen at seven-twenty-two in the evening, leaning onto the counter with his hands once again curled into fists, tears dropping onto his knuckles—because he’s out of clean dishes.

The ringing of the doorbell feels like a cube of ice is sliding down his spine, making him freeze like a deer in the headlights—then he’s rubbing at his face like crazy, hoping against hope to erase all the marks of his stubborn, stupid misery.

* * *

“Good evening, Detective Reed.” Connor’s voice is its usual, pleasant timbre, but there’s something else in his tone Gavin can’t exactly pinpoint. He was looking for something, anything—grasping at straws—to replace that desperate feeling clawing at his chest, but he’s not altogether happy about the _irritation_ that he now finds himself saddled with.

“The fuck are _you_ doing here, tin can?”

“There has been a recent development in the Wesson case that I felt was important to immediately discuss—”…

“Nah, it’s a social call.”

Hank gently pushes Connor to the side, his gaze seeking out Gavin’s. Gavin frowns; it feels difficult to meet the other’s gaze all of a sudden, but—contrary bastard as he is—he glares right back anyway. The Wesson case is a series of gruesome murders, android and human victims, that Fowler assigned the three of them to cooperate on, and there’s a part of Gavin that wants to just switch back to work mode and ask about it, because that would be so much easier than dealing with whatever the hell Anderson wants.

There’s something striking about Hank’s expression; it makes Gavin avert his eyes in spite of himself, makes him step to the side to allow them inside, even though it’s the last thing he wants. The three of them have been… somewhat more amicable than they used to be during the android revolution, but it’s still thin fucking ice, and his personal life is not something he wants to share with either of them, especially not the mess it currently is.

It seems, however, that that is exactly what they are aiming for right now. Gavin isn’t sure he understands the purpose or the motivation, but he’s too tired to really resist. He allows them inside, takes a moment to nudge one of the cats out of the way before she escapes, then closes the door with a stifled sigh.

Hank is looking around in the living room like he feels entirely at home. It stirs something uncomfortable in the pit of Gavin’s stomach—the familiarity is unsettling, as if Hank knows exactly what he’s seeing, and it’s far more than an unkempt apartment with dirty dishes piled in the sink.

Connor’s not looking around, nor is he looking at Gavin. He only has eyes for Hank, and he looks—worried. “Lieutenant… I thought we agreed that the best approach—…”

Once again, he is interrupted. Hank gives an annoyed snort, and a wave of his hand. “Fuck off with that, Connor. I know what I’m doing. Go make yourself useful somewhere.”

 _Now_ Connor’s gaze flickers to Gavin, but Gavin has no idea how to respond to any of this. _What the hell is going on?!_

With a soft huff, almost a sigh—androids don’t need to breathe, _what the hell does this mean?_ —he steps into the kitchen and disappears from sight. Gavin can hear him beginning to talk to Bailey in a soft voice, but he’s too focused on Hank to really care.

“Sit down.”

The other cat wakes as they both sit, and she jumps off the couch with an offended look. Gavin thinks idly that she must not like the booze smell—he opens his mouth to say it, then looks at Hank, and closes his mouth again. It—doesn’t feel right, not here, not now, to jab at him the way he usually does.

The silence stretches between them for a few moments. Gavin doesn’t know what to say—how to ask what they _really_ want—doesn’t know what to do with ‘social call’, from a guy who was at one point a close friend, a mentor, even, only for it to fragment and shatter to pieces years ago. They still keep cutting themselves on the shards, and Gavin is tired of licking his wounds alone.

Bailey walks in from the kitchen, but Connor doesn’t follow. Gavin hears the kitchen tap open, water pouring. He frowns in confusion, finally opening his mouth to make a remark, and then—

“Wanted to see how you were doing,” Hank says in a low voice.

Another span of silence. Gavin is beginning to think he’s having a fever dream of some sort; Hank Anderson barely cares to put his shirt on the right way before he goes to work, and now he wants to know how _Gavin_ is doing?!

“It’s tough,” the Lieutenant says, even quieter. “Losing someone you love.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, the fucking _worst_ thing. Gavin grits his teeth so hard he sees sparks, and he _snarls_ at the other, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

“Tina isn’t _dead_!”

“But you’re scared she might die,” Hank replies simply, without missing a beat, and it cuts so deep, Gavin crumples where he’s sat, sinking into the couch cushions and wishing they just swallowed him whole. Why are they having this conversation? Why is he having this conversation with _Hank_ of all people, if he must have it at all?

“Look, if this is some kind of shitty intervention so I don’t off myself like you’ve been trying—”

Hank looks like he’s been slapped in the face, but after a moment’s pause, his expression smooths out, and he laughs. “Dammit, Gavin, will you ever learn how to pull your punches?”

 _Unlikely_ , Gavin thinks, and his mouth twitches; almost a smile, though he doesn’t fully manage.

There’s yet another small stretch between their words, but the silence feels less tense, less suffocating than before. Hank looks comfortable sitting on Gavin’s couch, like he’s right at home; there was that look of familiarity in his eyes when he looked at how messy everything is (if that’s what he was looking at, anyway—it seems to always be at the forefront of Gavin’s mind, his inability to finally straighten this place out); now his posture is relaxed, hands dropped in his lap as he turns sideways to face him, shoulder pressing a dent into one of the firmer cushions as he leans into it.

“Listen,” he says, and God, he sounds so tired all of a sudden. “I’m just saying, I know what this feels like. And I know I’ve been really fucking shitty about it. That’s exactly why I’m here—‘cause I don’t want you to fall into the same goddamn black hole, where you don’t know how to reach out to ask for anything, ‘cause it’s too late for people to start to care.”

A shiver runs down Gavin’s spine. His chest aches. _Black hole_ is right, though this is an entirely different kind, with the rug pulled from under his feet by words that make him feel like his _soul_ is being stared at.

As per usual, he makes one last ditch attempt to regain some semblance of dignity, even though he knows, somewhere, that this is the wrong thing to do. “ _Fuck_ you, you don’t know anything. You don’t know me anymore, Hank.”

Connor chooses this moment to reappear, wiping his hand on a kitchen towel, wearing a placid smile. “I’m done with the kitchen, but I can find something else to do if you two need more time to talk,” he says to Hank, and albeit Gavin can only hazard a guess at what he’s actually been doing in the kitchen, it’s not _that_ hard to figure out, and it stuns him into the fire of his anger immediately sizzling out, leaving him gaping at the android while Hank answers.

“Bedroom, maybe?”

Connor steps back into the kitchen for a moment to deposit the towel somewhere, then walks across the living room without another glance at the pair of them, and disappears into Gavin’s bedroom with the purposeful stride of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and will not be deterred from it. Gavin thinks this should feel invasive, that he should be getting even more pissed, but something about the casual way the two of them go about having _Connor_ put his apartment back in order leaves him powerless to argue.

“He did that for me,” Hank says when the bedroom door closes behind Connor. His crow’s feet are incredibly visible when he smiles. He’s really getting on in years, Gavin thinks, but for the first time in a long while, he thinks of it as a mere fact rather than an insult. “I fought him tooth and nail, insisted I could take care of my own life, but—well, I couldn’t really, at that point. And considering he found me blackout drunk on my kitchen floor less than a day after he first met me… let’s just say I lost the moral high ground pretty fucking fast.”

Gavin doesn’t know whether to laugh or scoff at this, so he just drops his gaze into his lap, beginning to fidget with the hem of his shirt.

“So,” Hank continues, voice quieter again, “when we were talking about being worried about you, he suggested we come and do the same for you.”

“How’d he know?” Gavin finds himself asking, baffled.

Hank shrugs. “I dunno exactly, he’s just observant. Something something, your shirt wasn’t ironed…”

Gavin snorts, but it comes out sounding strangled, more reminiscent of a sob than anything else. Hank makes a motion with his hand—abrupt, like he’s reaching out and changing his mind at the last second. It makes the ache in the middle of Gavin’s chest throb with renewed intensity; he _hates_ this hesitation between them that didn’t use to be there. Hates that even when Hank offered something more honest than he ever has, Gavin still doesn’t know how to close the gap the rest of the way.

He leans forward, curling in on himself. Letting go of his shirt, his fingers wind themselves into his hair, finding good purchase as they grip. Somewhere overhead, Hank sighs, and—

he closes the distance himself.

A wide, warm palm settles into the middle of Gavin’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Hank murmurs. “For not coming to check on you sooner. I was—” A small pause. “Nah, doesn’t matter.” Gavin knows, even if Hank doesn’t say it; he was probably wary of how Gavin might react, with all the antagonism between them, all the rifts they’ve been navigating throughout the past years. “I’m here now.”

He certainly is; there’s a _presence_ to him that seems to fill the room, unignorable. It makes Gavin feel small, somehow, but not in a bad way. He can’t explain it even to himself.

“Tina’s a strong girl,” Hank says. “She might pull through.”

It’s the word _might_ that’s the nail in the coffin; the fact that even while trying to be as encouraging as possible, Hank still doesn’t make empty promises.

She _might_.

Gavin drags his hands down from his hair as he breaks, and he cries into his fists, still bent over with his forehead almost touching his knees, while Hank’s hand rubs soothing circles around the bumps in his vertebrae, until the world constricts itself into a pinpoint focus of that one point of contact between them; a pair of shaking shoulders, and an all-encompassing, warm hand.

* * *

Some time after that, the six of them all end up on Gavin’s couch, resuming the movie he was watching earlier. (How much time, Gavin has no idea; time seems to have temporarily lost meaning as it speeds up and then comes to abrupt halts tonight, crystallizing some moments and completely glazing over others. He remembers Hank’s hand on his back, fragments of his expression. Connor’s assured steps across his living room, that almost-smile on his lips that leaves room for no argument. He doesn’t remember when he stopped crying or how he ended up wedged between his old colleague and an android, with one of his cats curled up on the back of the couch, pressed against the back of Gavin’s neck, and his dog’s head in Connor’s lap, demanding pets.)

It’s an almost comfortable silence; companionable at least, if not peace, then at least a truce that feels lasting. As if there is some unspoken agreement between them that whatever animosity remains can be put to the side until things start looking up again. Gavin is… grateful for this. He doesn’t know how to word it, but it doesn’t feel like he needs to.

When the movie ends, it joins the list of things that fade quickly into obscurity about tonight; he has no idea what he’d even picked to begin with. Background noise. Gavin doesn’t like silence; even at work he always has something playing in his ear while he does paperwork.

Connor remains motionless, save for his fingers’ gentle carding through the fur on top of Bailey’s head, but Hank shifts on Gavin’s other side, and Gavin draws in a deep breath as if waking from sleep. He extricates himself from between them all and walks out onto the balcony to grab a smoke.

Maybe it’s because he feels like he excised something painful and ugly with that breakdown, but he feels a little more clear-headed now. The cool night-time air also helps; he takes deep breaths of it intermittent with his drags of smoke, and he lets the atmosphere settle around him, as if the clouds part momentarily.

The sky above is littered with a few stars; only the shinier ones can be seen here in the deep of the city. Gavin remembers driving to Richmond with Tina, then further north, to Lake Huron, lying on the hood of his car wrapped in blankets until the hubbub of humanity ebbed away from their ears. Counting stars, talking about the future. A simpler time, perhaps.

Or just less painful than the memory of her laid on stark white sheets, motionless save for the jumping spikes on the monitor of her EKG machine.

Gavin doesn’t give a start when the balcony door opens behind him. He thinks he half expected one of them to come after him, though—perhaps due to their earlier moment—he expected it to be Hank rather than Connor.

The android stops at arm’s length from him, observing him with a calm, collected expression that betrays nothing to someone with less attention to detail, but Gavin thinks he’s seeing something akin to concern.

That, or perhaps he’s wishful thinking. For all he knows, this might have all been Hank’s idea. It’s not as if Connor has any reason to _like_ him.

Then again, maybe he doesn’t have to like someone to care about their well-being—it would be fitting, wouldn’t it? For him to just _care_ , for its own sake. For altruism. It feels somehow like a _Connor_ thing to do.

God damn it, Gavin needs to get out of his own head already.

“Sup,” he says after a few moments, when it’s beginning to become clear Connor is just going to watch him rather than say anything.

“I apologize for the intrusion, Detective Reed,” are the words he’s met with. It doesn’t feel like a response to his question. It doesn’t even feel like Connor means his coming out to keep him company (if that’s what he’s trying to do) on the balcony. From the way the other’s lips tug upwards in their corner, Gavin can tell his line of thought is on the right track even before Connor continues: “I imagine it must be rather… unsettling, to have your personal space invaded in this manner.”

 _He still talks like a fucking machine,_ Gavin thinks idly, and he takes another drag of his cigarette, taking his time exhaling the puff of smoke as he tries and fails to figure out a response.

 _Some_ response is required, however, and in lieu of anything better, and because Connor is still a better target for his acrid manners than Hank, he ends up just blurting it. “You ever gonna get that stick out of your ass?”

Something shifts in Connor’s expression—not unkind, not even hurt. A hint of surprise, perhaps. Amusement, certainly. Gavin is beginning to think he can actually read him now. Then he mentally backtracks a moment later, wondering if Connor is making himself more open on purpose. Repaying the vulnerability he has already witnessed from Gavin.

“I suppose,” the android says, taking half a step closer to Gavin so he, too, can lean slightly against the railing, “you’ll just have to stick around to see.”

A momentary pause, as Gavin tries to wrap his tired mind around this. _Is that an invitation to get to know him, or just a warning not to completely lose my shit about Tina?_ He decides not to ask.

Instead, he repeats Connor’s words to himself, and— “Wait a fucking second, was that a _pun?_ ”

The android doesn’t respond, but his expression is unbearably smug.

After another few seconds, Connor breaks the silence again. “You were far less disagreeable about our presence here tonight than I anticipated. I am… grateful for that.”

“Grateful I’m too tired to be a pain in your neck?”

Connor just looks at him. Allows the question to hang between them like a web of gossamer, ready to be torn down as soon as Gavin realizes how ridiculous he is being. Which, admittedly, takes a lot less than usual. Before long, he’s taking another pull of his nearly finished cigarette, exhaling it in puffs through his nose and shaking his head. “Right. Sorry. You guys really went out of your way for me tonight, I shouldn’t be a dick to you.”

Gavin is an honest person by nature; just as he has never hidden his negative opinion of Connor, he doesn’t withhold the positive acknowledgement either. The apology is not as hard to say as one might imagine. But the _thank you_ , he doesn’t quite manage.

Thankfully, Connor seems to hear it anyway. He gives Gavin a smile; a genuine one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, not one of those machine smiles he used to do, and Gavin finds something stutter in his chest, as if it’s coming loose with warmth spreading across his body from head to toe.

“I’m grateful you allowed us to help, Gavin.”

It’s quite possibly the first time he’s ever called him by his first name. In a downright comical show of surprise, Gavin accidentally drops his cigarette straight out of his mouth, narrowly missing his shoe with it as it falls. “Shit!” He very nearly stomps on it, too, distracted, before remembering he’s on his own goddamn balcony rather than in the street, and he bends down to pick it up, putting it out in the ashtray in a vicious shove of flaming embarrassment. “Yeah, thanks, whatever,” he mutters, feeling the rim of his ears burning, and expecting at the very least another one of those crinkly-eyed smiles, this time at his expense.

Yet again, however, Connor remains earnest, his expression unwavering as he waits for Gavin to gather the crumbs of his composure, and after a few moments of quiet, it’s Gavin again who speaks, feeling like he’d better not miss the window of opportunity he carved out for himself with the fact that he half _said it already_.

“… seriously, thank you, Connor.” Genuine, but awkward, nonetheless. Gavin fidgets with his pack of cigarettes in his pocket, struggling to find the right words. “You really didn’t have to do that. Would’ve been enough if Hank dropped in to check on me, let me fall apart a little. It’s not even…” He falters for a moment, actually considering what might be the correct thing to say here; _your programming_ feels suddenly awful. “Well, doing stuff like that was never your job.”

Connor’s lip twitches; it’s not the same smile, but it’s a little show of mirth regardless. He shuffles a little closer to Gavin, and before Gavin has time to feel surprised, Connor bumps his shoulder against his.

“It’s not what I initially accompanied Hank for, but I have no regrets about it regardless.”

Gavin finds himself curious. “Yeah? What did you originally want to come for?”

There’s a quick flash of hesitation; Connor presses his mouth into a thin line before conceding, admitting quietly, “Lightning rod.”

“What?”

“Your relationship with Hank hasn’t been friendly for a long time,” Connor says, eyes downcast. Gavin feels something uncomfortable shift in the pit of his stomach. “And he tends to say things… well, you both do. I had faith that he would find the right thing to say, but just in case—…”

“You wanted to play buffer,” Gavin realizes belatedly. When Connor nods, he lets out a sigh, beginning to fidget inside his pockets again, fingerpad grazing against the sharp corner of the paper box, letting it dig into the soft flesh, moving it around as if he’s scratching an itch.

Connor opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it again. It’s such a startlingly _human_ gesture that Gavin cannot help the bark of laughter that escapes him, nor the desire he gives in to that makes him brush his own shoulder momentarily against the android’s. “’S alright, you can ask.”

Connor still looks hesitant, but the positive response seems to give him enough momentum to spur him into blurting, “What happened between you two?”

Gavin contemplates for a few moments. Before coming to a decision, he asks, “Hank never said anything?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

Somewhere, Gavin thinks he understands why. Though at the same time, it’s an interesting development that Connor opts to ask _him_. After a few more moments of deliberation, he arrives at the conclusion that that alone warrants a response.

“You know about Cole, right?”

The silence is an answer in and of itself.

“Hank was kind of my unofficial mentor when I first joined the force,” Gavin continues, not leaving Connor enough space to interrupt or even feel bad about bringing this up. “He was a detective then, but he became a Sergeant shortly afterwards, and then he got to Lieutenant a little bit after I was made a detective. Always a step ahead. Paving the road. Mind, he never picked up my slack. If I fucked up, he let me take the fall. He was always a tough bastard. But he showed me all the ropes, and he was always there to scrape me off the pavement.

“Then that fucking car accident happened, and he turned inside out.”

Connor looks like he wants to interrupt, but there’s something that holds him back—maybe the anguished look in Gavin’s eyes.

“That entire year was such a fucking shitshow. First Celia left Hank, and then Cole died, and then a month later my dad died from a stroke—…”

Connor shifts, but by now he knows better than to say anything until Gavin’s finished. Still, he finds a way to convey what he wants. He presses his shoulder against Gavin’s, and keeps it there, a firm, anchoring pressure.

“I wanted to be there for him,” Gavin says, his voice dropping low and hoarse. “But he didn’t let me. He was pushing everyone away, I _know_ it wasn’t really personal, but—it felt like it anyway. And then I wanted _him_ to be there for _me_ , but of course that was really fucking impossible at that point, and I guess we just… let it happen.”

Both mad at the entire world, the pair of them were always ready to ignite each other’s anger. At first, Gavin remembers, it was almost a good outlet. There was a time or two when he felt like Hank might feel the same, from the way he looked at him after they’d had a dumb shouting match in the parking lot about Hank’s alcoholic habits or Gavin’s work ethics and growing disciplinary file. But he never attempted to verbalize the parts that weren’t hurtful lashing out, and Gavin had no idea how to be the one that reaches out. He felt—diminished. Small in ways he did not want to feel small.

There is no way for him to put this into words, but it doesn’t matter. Maybe, a treacherous little voice whispers at the back of his mind, maybe after tonight, it really won’t matter anymore. Maybe there could be still—

Connor’s arm is sneaking up his back, eventually circling both his shoulders, fingers curling into the one opposite from him. He’s warm. A funny thing—Gavin doesn’t know why he thought androids are cold. Maybe because he knows they’re made of metal? Stupid, really; his laptop runs hot, too. This is a comfortable warmth; it takes no time for him to relax into it.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says softly.

Maybe it’s the atmosphere of this entire evening; somewhere along the way it began to feel as if they’re occupying some kind of semi-existing liminal space. Like a fever dream; he’ll wake up tomorrow, and everything will be back to normal.

(If that meant Tina would be back, Gavin would honestly be okay with that, he thinks.)

For now, he allows things to simply happen. Stops thinking so much.

Sags into Connor’s embrace as they both look up at the faraway stars, thinking of times long past.

* * *

The liminal space expands, and with it, Gavin’s bubble does too.

It’s a faster process than he could have anticipated, faster than he can even follow, or just barely. Things shift around; first small, then growing.

Hank gives him a proper hug before they depart. Gavin curls his fingers into his jacket for a moment and inhales a throwback to years ago; bright-eyed and eager, not yet sandpapered into bitterness.

Connor brings him a coffee the next morning at work. If not for last night, Gavin would take it as a pointed insult. Neither of them has forgotten their beginnings, but he can read it in Connor’s gaze—whether he’s really learning, or Connor is still choosing to be open—that it doesn’t matter as much anymore.

Someone calls out his name when he passes by a circle of co-workers talking about something on his lunch break. He almost doesn’t stop—surely there’s a mistake—but then he thinks of Tina telling him he needs to make more of an effort to be sociable. Within five minutes, he finds himself _in_ the circle, not quite knowing how that happened, but not really complaining about it either.

There are still moments when he feels like he can’t breathe, but somehow, they’re not as heavy, and they don’t last. Most often because he is distracted by something or someone.

Eventually, Gavin notices the pattern, and he’s definitely embarrassed about it, but also—so very grateful.

* * *

It’s by sheer chance that Gavin is there when Tina finally wakes. He and her mom have been switching places with each other for a while now; some of the others have come to sit with her, too, but it’s mostly been the two of them. Gavin has no other family to go home to, unlike Chris or Ben.

Hank and Connor have been dropping by a bit more often, though. Gavin gets the sense that it’s less about Tina and more about him; they make sure he eats something, doesn’t just try to survive on the shitty hospital coffee.

It’s after visiting hours, but nobody has ever told Gavin to leave when that happens. Dreary afternoon sun turns into a murky dusk outside, and a streetlamp flickers into life nearby, filtering its warm yellow light through the curtains.

Tina’s fingers twitch in Gavin’s hand, and Gavin jolts as if he was poked with a cattle prod. “Teenie?”

He wonders, for a long, impossible moment, if he was dreaming it. He’d been about to drift off into a restless half-sleep, but—he couldn’t have, could he?

Tina draws in a breath—slow, painstaking—and opens her eyes. “Hey, Gav,” she whispers.

Gavin looks at her for a long moment. She still has more broken bones in her body than Gavin was aware the human body even _had_. But she’s alive. She’s _awake_. And Gavin—

Gavin takes her hand gently, presses his cheek into her palm, and crumbles down silently, shoulders shaking with the force of his relief.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [the New ERA discord server](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm), if you wanna yell at/with me about sad ratmen (but ao3 comments are also very welcome)!


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